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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999617">When the time gets late</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony'>Melanie_D_Peony</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Apologies, Bad Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Missing Scene, Objectively terrible workplaces, Paranoia, Pining Martin Blackwood, Season/Series 02, Set after MAG60, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trust Issues, amusing myself, chants "date night" like a drunk frat boy, mind my syrupy nonsense, must a piece of fanfiction really have a plot I ask, no beta we die like me, sapiosexual Jon and moronsexual Martin are perfect for each other, somewhere halfway between "useless ass" and "I need you", still on my bs, you live in a society I live in the missing scenes of season 2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:47:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999617</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon doesn't do socials after work. He has to be coerced into participating in any kind of office party by petty means of extortion. He doesn't deal in office gossip, he barely remembers their extended list of colleagues. The breadth of his usual conversations with Martin are limited to stilted "good morning"-s and stuffy "thanks for the tea"-s. Jon and him, they don't do tete-a-tetes or heart to hearts. So Martin is naturally suspicious when Jon asks him out for drinks.<br/>And the evening does, indeed, get weirder than he ever would have imagined.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>242</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When the time gets late</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>'Everyone I’ve talked to says you and him were close.' Alice 'Daisy' Toner TMA Episode 82</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>'Okay, Jon. Care to tell me what's this all about?' </p><p>Martin asks this as their small talk over drinks come to a stilted halt.</p><p>Jon doesn't do drinks after work. He has to be coerced into participating in any kind of office party by petty means of extortion. So his sudden invitation is a little bit unnerving.</p><p>Especially given that a few hours ago he was busy shouting at Martin, demanding he tells his secrets, before abruptly dropping the whole subject once Martin admitted to lying on his CV. </p><p>They've discussed current cases until now and Martin tried to include Jon in some office gossip but Jon barely remembers their extended list of colleagues, so that topic wasn't really going anywhere. And anyway, there's only so much stalling he can do before he cracks under the suspense.</p><p>'Fine.' Jon sighs, studying his fingers intently where they are wrapped around his glass. 'Martin, I called you here today because I wanted to apologise.' </p><p>That is certainly new and Martin can't help but observe the scene with a looming sense of suspicion. It's not that Jon doesn't admit to being wrong at all - though it is very rare. And he clearly hates it. So he usually desperately tries to avoid it by always being in the right. And lately he'd been clinging to his version of reality with an angry fervor no one was able to break through. Therefore it's no surprise that this confession is a bit stiff. </p><p>But it's strong and firm and heartfelt to a surprising degree and Jon finally locks eyes with Martin as he continues.</p><p>'I'm sorry for the way I behaved today.' </p><p>'Hey, it's wasn't even the worst dressing down I've ever head.' Martin shrugs because for what it's worth, that is actually true. </p><p>'You got shouted at like this often?' Jon squints at him guiltily and with concern Martin doesn't really understand.</p><p>'Sure, often enough and sometimes by real terrible people. And I mean <em> proper </em> creeps.'</p><p>'Like, the kind who'd… go through your staff? Stalk you?' Jon asks pointedly, furrowing, angry clearly only with himself. </p><p>'Oh, don't flatter yourself. I mean, sure, that staff is bad, but you are still an amateur. And, for the record, I hate that we had to go to Elias, but it's not like you were willing to talk to any of us.' </p><p>'No, no, it's understandable.' Jon shakes his head. It's obvious that braced himself for this, even rehearsed it a bit perhaps. His sentences are strangled, but well rounded and sincere. 'I know it's not an excuse, but I wasn't in a good place. I did think I can trust you, so I wouldn't have listened anyway. But I can now admit that I've been awful to you.'</p><p>'As I said before, you are far from the worst.'</p><p>'What kind of people did your work for, Martin?'</p><p>Martin finally succeeds in elevating Jon's forlorn mood a bit - trust his curiosity to get the better of the Archivist, he smiles to himself.</p><p>'Oh, poor, naive Jon.' He shakes his head and, much to his amusement, sees that Jon is annoyed by being called naive. 'My work history is checkered and messy with other people's immoral decisions.' </p><p>He finally nips his wine and finds it good - though not as good as to justify its price. But that's what you get for choosing to drink in a Central London pub. Across him, Jon practically rattles with poorly disguised intrigue, so he finally spares the Archivist. </p><p>'My track record is longer than it should be due to me starting way younger than I should have. Additionally, most of my first jobs were really illegal enterprises that got shut down. I was not being legal. Let's… I can run through the list. There was one job, where every Monday they hired people, who worked with them for a week and they fired everyone on a Friday and they said "come back on Monday, we rehire you". That's one example.' Martin counts on his fingers. 'There's been another one, which was fine, but I got told off a lot, because I wrote some things down at some point. Because they were the kind of place that if they ever got audited, they would have had to shred all their records. Just… immediate evacuation of the office. And the cost of the shredders was so high that they were like "just remember things". </p><p>'God, Martin. Is this kind of fine education that lead to you faking your CV?' Jon looks at him above the frame of his glasses and Martin nods with something almost like pride. </p><p>'It wouldn't be the first time. And I refuse to apologise for what was so clearly a blatant lie. You really should have known better. I mean, didn't it strike you as suspiciously good?' Martin asks resting his chin is his palm, gesturing with his other hand, holding up his cup. 'That I coincidentally have a first in library sciences <em> and </em> a masters in parapsychology? I basically created the perfect candidate for this job, Jon. I half expected you guys not to hire me on account of my CV being to good to be true.'</p><p>Jon squints at him from above his pint before he lowers it gently on the table. </p><p>'Well, in my defence, I sort of accepted that too good to be true is just your general demeanour, to be honest.' He shrugs with a strangely  naked expression and begins to list. 'I-I mean, you always came to work chipper, even after the Prentiss attack, when things really started to go off the rails. You seemed so friendly, so eager to please, to take care of our needs, always asking if I want a tea, if I had a proper break, berating me for a sneaky fag…'</p><p>'Smoking is <em> horribly </em> unhealthy habit, Jon.' Martin is unable to resist inserting.</p><p>'...and then I found that note and it just sort of clicked. No ones cares <em> genuinely </em> that much. Not without some ulterior motive.' </p><p>Jon is getting more and more animated as he relives the different stages of his latent paranoia and Martin is genuinely trying to listen, but frankly, he is a bit distracted by the way Jon's flushing in the steamy, overcrowded pub. </p><p>'I didn't think… I couldn't have known that you were just desperately trying to hold down a job you are not really qualified for.' His boss concludes, a bit deflated, proceeding to absently draw circles in a puddle of condensation on their table. </p><p>There's something bitter gathered in Martin's mouth and it's not the aftertaste of the wine.</p><p>'Jon, you… you know I wasn't faking all of that, do you?' He stammers, surprised by the heat and weight of an unnamed emotion that's surging up in him. </p><p>'Well, weren't you?' Jon's tone is flat, his act casual, like now that he'd processed and consolidated the fact of being deceived, he doesn't care about it anymore. This is the polar opposite of his late behaviour and a bit hard to absorb for Martin. 'It would be quite understandable, given your circumstances. Going above and beyond to be a good colleague, knowing that you can't really be a good employee…' </p><p>'Honestly, Jon!' Martin perks up, somehow offended by the feigned disinterest in Jon. 'You've known me for this long, how can you think that I don't care for you?'</p><p>The words are out before he has a chance to think them through. He curses inwardly, blames the wine and rushes in to mitigate the blow.  </p><p>'I-I mean… you and the others, of course. A-All of you. How could I not? Not after you've… after all of what you've…'</p><p>There's something underneath his rightful indignation, a nebulous mass of feelings for his team, the first ever group of people who looked out for him in a long time… or maybe ever.  </p><p>He knocks back some wine to grease the words that are somehow too big for his throat, words that will sound deflated by the time they make it to the surface, regardless of their pathos.</p><p>'When I arrived, I kept myself to myself, as always. I forever did that, every place I worked, because the less connections I made, the less chance I had to let something slip. Most people accepted after a while that I was just that much of a misanthropic ass and left me be. But you guys… You wouldn't allow me to build up my walls. Instead, you always included me. All those lunches and drinks after work and…' </p><p>'Well, that was mostly Tim and Sasha…' Jon admits mournfully and while this is true on a surface level, things are not as simple as that in Martin's opinion.</p><p>'No, but you as well.' His persistence borders on nagging. His gestures are becoming slippery and vague; the wine he intended for atointing his lips is making his body language slick. 'Like, you could have called me out for not saying two words during my own bloody birthday party. Instead you came through, talking about emulsifiers until I gathered myself. Rarely have I felt so glad and so relieved.'</p><p>'God, don't remind me. That was humiliating.' Jon winces in mock horror, offering a comforting smile all the same</p><p>'Hey, I'm sorry, but I was a bit shell shocked that you found out about my date of birth when I purposefully haven't mentioned it once.' Martin shakes his head, still in a state of mild disbelief. 'I wanted it secret, because it would've been just another lie to juggle, after all.'</p><p>'Christ, of course.' Jon snorts into his frothing beer. 'You aren't even thirty yet.' </p><p>'And I don't see any problem with that.' Martin offers forcefully.</p><p>'No, no, it's just… you probably weren't born in April either.' </p><p>'I was, actually. It's the year that I counterfeited, not the day.' </p><p>'You are a man of many mysteries, aren't you.' Jon is now openly grinning with some impish expression behind his eyes like he is amused by the convoluted plot of the monodrama Martin knows as his life. 'I wonder what other secrets do you have.'</p><p>The sentence is meant to be dismissive, nonchalant, but intrigue is never a half hearted thing with Jon. His gaze darkens as he says that and Martin feels a flush, as always, when he is the focal point of Jon's undivided attention. </p><p>'I mean… you can just ask me?' He squirms a Iittle under the intense stare. 'If you'd like.'</p><p>Jon only contemplates that for a moment, before lunging in.</p><p>'Fine. Let's see. Are you really from the North?'</p><p>'Can't you tell?' Martin frowns a bit.</p><p>'You could be mimicking the accent.'</p><p>'I am actually quite rubbish at accents. If I were any good, I would've lost mine by now.' </p><p>'Don't.' Jon blurts suddenly and the raw sound of it startles both of them. Martin watches Jon's expression of mortification, as he presses on, almost as if involuntarily. 'It's... I mean, it suits you.' </p><p>'Sure.' Martin drawls, something like doubt lapping the edges of the delight he feels over the exchange. 'Anything else?'</p><p>'What does the K stand for?' Jon fires away, clearly gearing up by now. </p><p>There's a long stretch of silence as Martin's heart descends to the level of his ankles.</p><p>'I beg your pardon?' He whispers, mouth dry.</p><p>'What's your… what's your middle name?' Jon rephrases, sounding a bit flustered, uncertain, clearly perceiving that he'd touched a nerve there.</p><p>'How do you know about that?' Martin retorts, slightly choked. </p><p>'I may have… found a few of your poems.' Jon grits out in response and the sentiment that follows the confession forces another beat of uncomfortable silence on them. </p><p>'Oh, God.' Martin finally blasphemes into the background ambience. He buries his face in his palm, tries to breath out on the count of four and drains the rest of his wine successively. He looks at Jon with the most authoritative stare he can muster and the Archivist has the decency to shrink a bit in his seat.  </p><p>'You are applying the term "found" a bit loosely here, aren't you Jon?' Martin accuses on no uncertain terms and there's only the tiniest bit of deference in Jon's response.</p><p>'I said I was sorry.' </p><p>It helps a little bit, the apology, with the nauseating panic and the slightest bit of anger. The humiliation of it all seems to have turned his insides to something hot and molten.</p><p>But if he wants to be completely honest, he is nowhere near as bothered as he pretends. He is, rather, somewhat flattered. And while it's intensely vulnerable, being displayed like on a slab, vivisected by Jon's almost clinical attention, sure… Well, there's always been a tiny, self destructive part of him, begging him to allow Jon to palm his still beating heart. </p><p>'Why do you want to know?' He forces out a laugh to disperse the tension in the atmosphere a little. 'Does it really matter, my middle name? What difference would it make?' </p><p>'I'm trying to establish if you can be trusted.' Jon shrugs, aiming for levity, but sounding a bit defensive all the same, with his arms crossed, leaning away from his half empty pint.</p><p>'I thought that you have faith in me, now that I've confessed to my terrible crimes.' Martin can't help but tease with over exaggerated, faked surprise. He wanted to hold on to his righteous indignation a little longer, wanted to let Jon simmer a bit more, given that this is meant to be a night dedicated to confessions and apologies. But honestly, he'd seen enough of Jon's troubled frown for a lifetime. If he could have one thing, letting Jon have a good time would be high on the list of his priorities. He'd much rather collect the man's private little smiles and catalogue them at a later date, basking in the pleasant buzz long after the effect of the wine had worn off. </p><p>'Well, but you are proving to be quite the compulsive liar.' Jon taunts back in similar fashion, finally thawing a bit. 'Maybe I need more evidence before I completely come around.' </p><p>Martin makes a little, noncommittal sound and tries to use the natural break in the conversation to think. He startles a little, when Jon offers with unprompted honesty.</p><p>'Or maybe I'm just curious.'</p><p><em> Shit </em>, he thinks eloquently. </p><p>'Okay, what if I were to tell you it's Keats?'</p><p>Across him, Jon forces on a neutral expression, but Martin can see the battle that is raging inside him, from the way he minutely bites the corner of his lips. And it's fascinating to watch, the way Jon weighs his need for reprieve against his better judgement. Martin is genuinely unsure which will come out triumphant.</p><p>'Keats.' He finally deadpans and Martin shrugs because he did not expect this outcome and he can hardly back out now.</p><p>'My mother is a fan.' He offers as a sort of explanation and Jon bobs his head melancholically across the table. </p><p>In the meantime, the implications hit Martin in the chest again, like a freight train. </p><p>'You've read my poems.' He voices it. '<em> Bloody hell </em>, Jon.'</p><p>'I was trying to find out what are you plotting, you know.' He rushes in like <em> that </em> is going to mend anything. Martin doesn't even bother honoring that comment with an answer and his refusal to speak makes Jon tip his head sideways in wonderment.</p><p>'Is this what you wanted to be?' He asks, out of the blue, knocking Martin further from his mental equilibrium, leaving him almost gasping helplessly for air. 'Before your mom got sick? Did you… did you want to be a poet?' </p><p>The trepidation Martin feels over the question is probably appropriate, given that they are entering a sort of terra incognita here. The breadth of their usual conversation is limited to stilted "good morning"-s and stuffy "thanks for the tea"-s. Jon and him, they don't do tete-a-tetes or heart to hearts. Unless, of course, it's in the context of mortal danger where you can be fairly certain that you never have to face the consequences of blurted out confessions. </p><p>'It was merely one of those childish facies.' He dismisses the question slightly because, despite it being an ancient wound, it still stings a little. </p><p>'Nomen est omen, I suppose.' Jon smiles again and Martin is glad upon seeing the thin grin bloom. 'It must be a bit disappointing, to be toiling in an office job then. </p><p>'Come on, Jon. Realistically, I'd be wasting away in an office, even if got the chance to study further.' </p><p>'Who knows? You are fairly skilled poet, as far as I can tell. Maybe, if you had the opportunity…'</p><p>Martin's head is spinning already, but he desperately wishes that he had a bit more to drink, so at least he'd have somewhere to stare, something to do to hide his blush. "Fairly skilled" is not that big of a compliment and the way Jon offers it is super offhanded. But it's coming from Jon, who is stingy with his praise even on the best of days and therefore it wrecks more havoc in Martin's chest that it has any right to do so.</p><p>'Oh, come off it.' His voice has a treacherous tremble to it. 'Instead. Tell me. What about you?' </p><p>'What about me?' Jon echoes his clumsy attempt to divert his attention away.</p><p>'Did you always want to be "Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute"?' Martin puts on the stuffiest voice he can as he says the title. 'Even as a child?' </p><p>'Oh no.' Jon shakes his head and actually laughs and the sound makes Martin feel impossibly heavy and unbearably light. That is such a rare, alien noise, yet so charming that Martin is bit surprised that the whole pub doesn't fall into reverent silence in its wake. 'This is not my interrogation, it's yours!' </p><p>'I thought this was a gesture of goodwill and trust. An apology.' He holds up his end of the mental tussle valiantly. A condemnable effort, given how distracted he is by the little wrinkles around Jon's eyes.</p><p>'Yeah, sure, that too.' Jon nods with fervor and the light mood is headier than anything that the overpriced pub has to offer. </p><p>As if reading his thoughts, Jon stands.</p><p>'More wine?' He offers and heads for the bar without waiting for an actual confirmation. Martin takes the breather gladly and bites down slightly on his knuckles to remind himself not to get carried away. </p><p>Just because he has a crush, just because he had been mentally toying with this exact scenario, it doesn't mean that a drink with a coworker is the most significant thing that had happened to Jon in months too. </p><p>But he can't help feel delighted and he suspects that he'll be high on the experience for many more days to come. What really makes the whole night feel faintly fantastic is just how easy it is to talk to Jon. Martin always thought that he'd be much the same person outside the context of the looming arches of the Archives as inside; an intimidatingly intelligent, proper and professional suit and liked him despite it. Yet, delightfully, Jon is much less embarrassed by being but a normal human being than he'd led them to believe. At least now, in this pub with Martin, he seems to be basking in the opportunity to become something other than "Head Archivist". </p><p><em> Fuck it </em>. Martin sighs. He'll savour the experience, he decides. He can always do damage control in the solitary confinement of his apartment. So when he spots Jon, balancing their second round of drinks across the bullpen, he offers him an open smile of appreciation. The way Jon pauses and peers cautiously behind himself to see who's the object of Martin overt display of affection is like a twist of a knife in his guts and gives a bitter tinge to the flavour of the night.</p><p>'Thanks.' Martin salutes him with his drink a bit more subtly for the sake of their shared comfort and Jon dismisses it with a throaty little sound.</p><p>'A singer.' He says instead.</p><p>'Scuse me?' Martin nearly spits back his wine he is in so much of a hurry to respond because this is just too good to be true. </p><p>'My grandmother had a bunch of Ella Fitzgerald recordings I really loved. I used to pose in front of her mirror, wearing her pearls, trying to sing along.' </p><p>There's laughter bubbling up in Martin, not a mean spirited type but of pure delight and he's glowing with equal measure of doting and second hand embarrassment over the sheer thought.</p><p>'Took it far enough.' Jon continues severely. 'I've even been in a shitty little band at uni.' </p><p>'Why are you telling me this?' Martin breathes with awe. He knows that he just obtained a new found obsession over Jon's old hobby, but decides to hold those cards close to his chest.</p><p>'I mean, I know about the secret poetry you write. It's only fair if I offer something horribly embarrassing about myself in exchange. You know. As leverage.'</p><p>'Yeah, well, I suppose…' Martin begins before the words fully dawn on him. 'Hey! W-What do you mean by "horribly embarrassing"? I thought you didn't mind my poetry!' </p><p>And despite the irresistible charm in Jon's laughter, he wills himself to fire a crumpled napkin at him. </p><p>'Wanker.' He mutters half heartedly.  </p><p>'Your poems are fine, Martin.' Jon scoffs fondly. 'Really. I couldn't tell that you had no formal training when I read them.' </p><p>'Passable is not exactly the compliment I was fishing for here.' Martin rolls his eyes at Jon, which makes him prop his chin against his fist. </p><p>'Were you fishing for compliments?' He asks, his voice sincere, too much so, leaving Martin covered in gooseflesh.</p><p>'God no. I'd rather if we forgot about the whole thing.' Martin downs another generous helping of his drink forlornly, while Jon throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender.</p><p>'I'm sorry, it's just… quite something, the way you simply, pick things up as you go along. I guess I still can't wrap my head around the fact that you made for such a good researcher without ever qualifying.' </p><p>'I thought I am an abysmal assistant.' Martin squints at Jon, fairly confident that only he is aware of the hurt in his voice.</p><p>'For someone with a masters, sure. But for someone who is self-trained in library sciences, you are outstanding. It's a remarkable achievement, Martin, learning all this stuff along the way.' Jon gushes, shaking his head slightly. 'You are incredible.' </p><p>It finally happens; Martin's fingers slip around the neck of his glass and it lands with an obtrusive smash by his feet. He drops instinctively to pick up the shards and the reverb of his heartbeat is so loud in his ears that he only becomes aware of Jon talking to him, when he lays his fingers on his hand.</p><p>'I said you'll cut yourself.' Jon is obviously repeating the sentence. Their contact, unfortunately, isn't helping Martin's case of the shakes and he is unable to decide which one is worse; prolonging the touch or snatching his hand away.</p><p>'It's fine.' He manages to cough up and shows Jon the small pile of glass he'd already safely deposited on his palm. </p><p>'Wait here, I'll get a dustpan.' Jon commands and Martin sits back on his heels, the waves of his turbulent emotions rocking him gently still. </p><p>Jon returns with a member of the pub staff in tow. She is wrangling a broomstick they seemingly don't trust tipsy patrons with and sweeps the shards with skilled ease. She offers the dustpan for Martin when she is finished and he drops the glass in there.</p><p>'Sorry. I've always been a clumsy drunk.' He needlessly offers. She is unphased by the occurrence, while he just gets more embarrassed. </p><p>When she finally retreats, Martin steels himself, as he turns to Jon. </p><p>'I guess I'd better get going.' He announces. He'd been sailing some pretty dangerous territory and it's not long until he makes an even greater fool of himself, blurting out something inconvenient if Jon keeps being so kind. </p><p>Jon nods in agreement and gets his coat too. Martin briefly thinks about telling him to stay if he'd like, but a man has only so much willpower. </p><p>They step in the mild London night and hover by the door awkwardly, forced apart every now and then by the steady stream of patrons as they instinctively gravitate back to their closer vantage points. </p><p>'Well, I'm going this way.' Jon gestures vaguely behind himself. 'I'm just around the corner from here.' </p><p>'I'll walk you home then.' Martin latches on the opportunity to prolong their evening, despite his intention to end it while still on top of things.</p><p>'Martin.' Jon frowns at him, suddenly suspicious. 'You know I'm perfectly capable of walking fifteen minutes unchaperoned without debilitating myself.' </p><p>'I'm not saying that you aren't.' Martin argues. 'It's just that you've been a bit… accident prone lately.' </p><p>If Jon is allowed to fret about him cutting himself, than he has every right to reciprocate the gesture, Martin decides. After all, it's Jon sporting the fifteen stitches and apparently a little doting between friends if perfectly acceptable.</p><p>And he pushes his luck a bit, because of this easy kind of cameriade between them. </p><p>'After all, you already know where I live. So I rather thinks it's my turn to see your place.' He remarks, which makes Jon sighs and simply turn on his heels. Martin decides that the lack of outright rejection is as good as permission. He catches up to Jon and they walk in companionable silence for a couple minutes. Martin wrecks his brain for some long forgotten lyrics as he remarks. </p><p>'It was a nice evening.' </p><p>'I had fun.' Jon agrees.</p><p>'Lucky we got a table at the Queens Head at this hour.'</p><p>'Well, it's only Wednesday, after all. Not many are keen on getting hungover in the middle of the weak, I suppose.' </p><p>'It's like in that song, isn't it?' Martin grins as he proceeds to sing purposefully off key. <em> 'There's dew upon the ground, and not a soul in sight. </em> Am I right?'</p><p>That is pretty much the only Fitzgerald song he knows and took some thinking to clumsily force it into the conversation. He only does it to prompt a long suffering sigh and an eye roll from Jon, which he predictably, amazingly produces. But then he unexpectedly continues. </p><p>'It's actually like this.' He offers and he signs a haunting rendition of a bit of the song Martin was referring to. The sound of his singing voice somehow makes Martin's chest feel too tight, heart a steely pressure on his insides. If Martin previously thought that he can't possibly get more enamoured with this version of Jon, he was wrong. He feels pangs of preemptive pain over the fact that come Thursday, when Jon's relief over Martin's proven innocence will subside, they will be back to the perfunctory small talk, a common feature of all office jobs. </p><p>'I'll make sure to brush up on my Fitzgerald.' He croaks, humbly, only half joking.</p><p>'Good. It will weigh in heavily on your next performance review, just so you know.' </p><p>Martin, mortifyingly, actually giggles about this, as Jon pauses in front of a block of flats. </p><p>'That's me.' He gestures at the unremarkable building while Martin wrestles with a looming feeling of loss. 'Martin, listen, I…' </p><p>He never learns what Jon is about to say, because they are interrupted by a loud, demanding meow.</p><p>'Oh, hello.' Jon bends to the shabby alley cat that writers enthusiastically around his legs.</p><p>'Your cat?' Martin wonders, only slightly annoyed by the delightful interruption. Jon shakes his head and gestures at his apartment. </p><p>'No pet policy.' He gathers the large tomcat in his arms and it begins to purr with surprisingly insistence. 'He's a local stray I feed sometimes. I tried to rehome him twice, but he always shows up a couple days later.' </p><p>Martin moves to pet the cat behind his mangled ears and the creature leans into the touch. His fingers are precariously close to Jon's jacket clad chest like this.</p><p>'Martin, meet the Professor.' Jon croons at the animal. 'Professor, this is Martin.'  </p><p>'You named him Professor?' </p><p>'No.' Jon answers with utter seriousness. 'Professor is his title. His name is Cat, and he is a professor, who also happens to be a cat.' </p><p>The wave of Martin's affection is so overwhelming that it propels him forward before he has a chance to stop himself. By the time he comes around, his fingers are brushing Jon's cheek, readying to pull him into a kiss. It's a small miracle that Martin has the presence of mind to disguise the gesture as an attempt to brush Jon's overlong hair behind his ear. A terribly intimate thing, still, but better than the alternative. </p><p>He crams his treacherous hand in his jacket pocket. He can't be sure in the dim light of the streetlamp but Jon's pupil seem impossibly large.</p><p>'I'll… I'll see you tomorrow?' He asks like there is another scenario. </p><p>Jon nods.</p><p>'Goodnight, Martin.' </p><p>He forces himself not to run and only stops after he'd turn the corner, resisting the urge to brace his back against the damp, graffitied wall of an aging building. His body is acting like he'd participated in a marathon, while his mind is busy developing possible scenarios of what would have happened if he kissed Jonathan Sims like he'd wanted to. A couple weeks ago most of his fantasies would have ended with Jon being dismissive of such acts, albeit in a nice way or with an image of him in a state of outright offence, but after tonight some more hopeful ponderings wormed their way into Martin's mind. It's probably ludicrous, but he can't shake the impression that Jon was actually leaning into his touch a bit, like he was but a large feline himself - and while it was probably a mere fever dream produced by his tipsy brain, the possibility of it id still dazing. </p><p>Too preoccupied with his thoughts, Martin almost misses the beeping of his phone. When he pulls up the instant messaging app, there is a new text in there, waiting in the desolate white field of the conversation interface he shares with Jon. </p><p>It's a link to a music video and the application helpfully provides the artist and the title too - it's <em> Ev'rytime we say goodbye </em> from Ella Fitzgerald, followed by a single line.</p><p><em> Pop quiz tomorrow </em> and there's no emoticon to follow it, because it still a message from Jon Sims, Head Archivist, after all. </p><p>But Martin still thinks that a smile is implied.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Martin shares the dubious work history of his voice actor because why not?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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